Tall Tales -AKA- The Grass Isn’t Always Greener

By Deborah Bostock-Kelley

First and foremost, let’s address the three questions that inevitably arise in the course of any casual conversation: No, I didn’t play basketball. Yes, in my younger years, I did try modeling. And no, unfortunately, God did not empower me with the divine ability to give you a couple of inches. Confused? I’m 6’3 and female.

Now, let’s confront your initial honest reaction. Dang, you’re tall! First defined in adolescence as a synonym for freak-of-nature. Later revised when boys became men and long legs became an appreciated commodity.

Let’s get down to the basics. It’s an inseam I can neither control nor subtract. Although excluding the tops of refrigerators, the view is often better, I would eagerly give you those couple of requested inches, giving me the opportunity, for once in my life, to blend into the crowd. I’d even settle for not having to do the tall girl crouch to fit into short friend and family photos. Tall girls that don’t want their heads cut off in pictures know the one – a leg bent, leaning in, balancing, looking slightly deformed, but at least fitting into the frame. This stance distortion starts in youth and sadly, never changes.

Don’t get me wrong.

Now that I have a tall husband for 28 years, he’s helped me appreciate the benefits of being a tall woman.

Before? Well, I’ll let you make your own decision.

Try being a female teenager preparing for the world of dating when you tower over most of the opposite sex. If you’re not having your self-esteem pummeled with poetic nicknames like, Olive Oyl, Big Bird, Stretch, Slim and the ever-so-imaginative Too Tall that haunt you from grade school through high school, then it’s simply the difficult task of finding a man man-enough to not be intimidated by your elevated stature. Preferably one who isn’t mistaken for your little brother, one whose head is not awkwardly cushioned between your breasts during slow dances. Of course, there’s always the guys who want “the tall girl” as a decorative object draped on his arm. No relationship. No commitment. Or the little guy who’s willing to go out with you, but he doesn’t mind if you want to pick up the check as long as you do it wearing flats.

Okay. Exit the dating world. Enter the boutique.

Did you know the tallest tall in woman’s pantyhose is a mere six feet? That means stay-put silk and lycra that refuses to stay put. Instead, it slowly creeps down your waist, settling about mid-tummy with its supposed panty-area resting just a few inches above the knee. Speaking of this, did you know that a trendy business skirt, a professional four inches above the knee, that would get no more than a fleeting glance on the vertically challenged converts to indecent exposure on a long-legged individual?

Attempt the elementary task of finding a long-sleeved shirt or suit jacket that actually reaches down to your wrist in your local department store. Locate a one-piece bathing suit whose straps don’t bite into shoulders and bottoms don’t pull up into an unflattering wedgy. Try finding a pair of woman’s dress pants with a 38-inch inseam. For that matter, buy blue jeans that aren’t from the men’s department or at an exorbitant price from an online retailer. And don’t get me started on shoes.

Don’t ever tell me you wish you could be in my shoes unless you can get a decent pair when you’re vertically blessed. The majority of shoe retailers cater to the petite. Apparently, petite with big feet. Otherwise, there a lot of sadomasochistic shoe cobblers with dominatrix fantasies. Nine-nine percent of the time, if you have a big foot, it’s safe to assume you don’t need the added inches. Sorry, but I would not be caught dead in the 3″ and 4″ heels that usually accompany the larger sizes. Unfortunately, the heel-less variety offered in size 10 through 13 come in an ugly assortment that you would rather paint your feet black and wear the box.

And, now that I’m on my soapbox, would someone please explain to me why it was perfectly okay to gawk at my child’s size? My daughter had no choice in her height. Yes, she was 4’4″ tall and only five years old and now at 25 stands 6’3. I am 6’3. My husband is 6’4. What do these unconsciously rude people expect?

There is unusual and -unfortunately legal- discrimination in being a tall child. Did you know several all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurants charge per height for children? If you exceed the height allotted, no matter your age, you pay adult pricing. Technically, an overweight vertically-challenged adult could eat as a child based on this biased description. I contacted my state agency governing foodservice and since it does not fall under the age-sex- religion- sexual preference category, it is not prejudicial, just unfair and unethical.

Sorry for the sarcasm, but it touches a nerve with me. Like the cashier at a well-known amusement park who argued I was trying to get my then under-two-year old in for free when I should be paying a child’s price. With her birth certificate and a park supervisor in tow, I managed to mortify my husband who was sitting quietly on the sidelines as the obnoxious teen apologized profusely to me… or bagger in the grocery store who, when she was just two, looked at me and then at her and remarked, “Boy, she’s huge. Bet she’s gonna be tall like you, huh?” Gosh, ya think?! Or the kind-hearted elderly folk in the mall. “Oh, how cute! How old is she?” When I replied that she was almost three, I’m greeted with, “My God, she’s as big as my six-year-old granddaughter. No, I think she’s bigger. She’s going to be big, isn’t she?” I know she’s tall. After a lifetime of this type of public reaction and barrage, she’s a bright and intelligent young woman that realized early on that she would always be bigger than the other kids in her class. She’s grown up quite comfortable in her skin; why would someone want to make her feel self-conscious and embarrassed? You wouldn’t go up to the parents of an ugly child and remark, “Wow, what a hideous child you have there.” Why is it okay to make a tall child feel insecure?

Okay. I’ve said my piece. My request is simple.

If you see me or someone like me someplace, any place, and you want to start a conversation, “Hi. How are you?” is a good place to start.

And please, I beg of you, don’t ask how the weather is up there. I might just break down, cross the line, and act out that disgusting tall joke. I’ll spit and say it’s raining.